Jesus' death is almost impossible to accept. Then he comes back.
Easter | Third Sunday of Easter (Year B)
Acts 3:12-19 (Psalm 4); 1 John 3:1-7; Luke 24:36b-48
Our risen savior has taste buds and a digestive tract.
Last summer, Charles Moore, a retired Methodist minister, nearly 80 years old, parked in a strip mall in his hometown of Grand Saline, Texas, pulled out a gas can from his trunk, drenched his clothes with gasoline, knelt down, and lit a match. He died in flames.
Touch me and see, said the prisoners. Shake my hand and discover that I am human like you.
The story goes that God got a body. I’ve often pondered the relationship between incarnation and pain.
My father died about three years ago. As May comes around, the azaleas spring to life, and I remember my father's passing. Just as sure as the tulips and dogwood blossom, my mind wanders back to my dad. Even when I begin to open up to these strange and wonderful stories of Easter, struggling with the notions of recognition and revelation, I think about the last few months of my father's life.